


fanfic:Make you believe - make it real (oneshot) Dean/Sam

by Nina36



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36





	fanfic:Make you believe - make it real (oneshot) Dean/Sam

A/N: this is a missing scene from 7x02, it kinda ignores the big scene in the warehouse. Sue me…I think something definitely happened after Bobby left Dean and Sam alone.  
Their first kiss tasted of beer and salt. Dean wondered whether Sam still remembered it, if he remembered the rain ticking on the glass of the window, in the motel room, how years of running in circles around the elephant in the room, the Impala and all over the place, had eclipsed in one single moment, one breath…and the jolt of sensation that kissing each other had been.   
Sam’s hands had been everywhere on him, that night…as Dean tried to remember how to breathe, how to stop his head from spinning, how to shut the sense of guilt up.  
Sam had smiled against his lips, he had breathed his name, after they had broken apart, when oxygen had become something they had both needed.   
The night he realized what he felt for Sam, his little brother had just slammed the door of the rat house they had been living in, their father’s words still hanging heavily in the air. He took three steps, toward the door, to follow Sam, to tell him…to that day he still had no idea what he would have told him, but he didn’t. He stopped in front of the door, his gut burning, his eyes dry and punched the door, hard.   
When Sam died, at Old Creak, Dean stared at the still form of his brother for hours. He had hazy memories of that day, he mostly recalled feeling alternatively numb and hollow, like it hadn’t been just Sam’s blood that had tricked down on that mattress, in the backseat of the Impala or in the mud, the night before.  
He didn’t recall his drive toward the crossroad, he just had had this image in his head, and it had made him feel alive…it had given him hope. He did recall his way back to the house, though, after the deal.  
He recalled how strong his heart was beating, how afraid he was of the hope he was feeling, how it still hadn’t registered in his brain that he had just sold his soul, because his mind had been filled with Sam.  
Sam…  
…after Sam, the real Sam, came back, he spent their first night together watching him sleep, feeling alternatively like either a creep or a girl or both, but too happy, too giddy with emotions to care, for once. Sam moved in his sleep, hogging the covers, exposing his chest for a moment and Dean touched him, tracing the lines of his tattoo, not giving a fuck about what it’d make of him.   
And he still remembered how, even in his sleep, his brother had smiled.   
 _He says the same thing about you._  
What could he say to  _that_? How could he make Sam see the truth?  
What he could say to Sam when he himself, at times, didn’t feel real? The irony of it all - because even in his fucked up state of mind he could see that- was that Sam  **was**  the only real thing for him: as real as the blood flowing into his veins, as real as the thoughts that invaded his mind every day when he opened his eyes, after nights spent in a haze of insomnia, booze and nightmares.   
Sam was real…and he had always been real to Sam. Always.   
The only constant, the only thing that made sense…and now Sam was doubting it. Sam didn’t know, couldn’t tell…  
Sammy was afraid…and he was petrified.   
Numb, betrayed…tired, so very tired. It felt like breathing took all his strength and willpower these days. It had taken him hours to stitch Sam’s hand up, he had done a shitty job of it, but for a moment he had forgotten how to…he had stayed still, with Sam’s bleeding hand in his as he wondered what the fuck was going on.  
Sam  was still looking at him, like when they were kids and he still thought he held all the answers…it used to make him feel bigger than life, invincible…even for a few brief moments, now it made him feel small…and powerless.   
He saw the way Sam clenched his jaw, how bright his eyes became. Even now, as the silence hung heavily in Bobby’s living room, Sam was trapped in hell…in doubts and Dean couldn’t move.  
“Dean…” Sam said looking at him, pleading.   
Dean moved; he had hugged Sam in that room, months before…when he thought he would never wake up; they had slept countless times in that room over the years, one of them sprawled on the floor, the other on the couch…they had never dared doing anything else in Bobby’s house, an unwritten rule, a tacit one between them, that they had never broken…even if they knew Bobby suspected or knew about them.  
Sam’s eyes were bright, his skin pale, as he kept his gaze on him, his hands closed in tight fists on his sides.   
He moved, taking in all the details of Sam’s face, of the room around them and oblivious, at the same time, of anything that it wasn’t Sam. He didn’t even feel the floor under his knees when he knelt in front of Sam, taking his face in his hands.  
“Look at me, Sammy!” Dean said. It was an order, a plea…it was the only thing he could say.  
Sam tilted his head on a side, shifting his eyes toward him and Dean realized he had been holding his breath. That was Sam…the little brat he had read fairytales to, the moody teenager who rolled his eyes at his tales and smiled his mega watt smile when he let him be just a kid and not the warrior their dad wanted him to be. That was Sam…who had kept his eyes on the road, without shedding a tear, the night Jess had died, as fire burned inside of him.   
Sam who had trusted him, tried to save him, brought him back…broken and mended him every single day of their lives.  
 _His_  Sam.  _His_  reality…and he was Sam’s.  
He ignored Sam’s startled gasp when he brushed his lips with his,  he couldn’t tell how and when he had moved, too aware of Sam’s lips, of his hot breath against his lips…  
Sam was breathing against his lips, short puffs of air as his hands went tentatively on his shoulders, his fingers digging in his flesh in an almost painful way.  
The words, the things he wanted to say to Sam…things he would be able to say if he were another man, if things had been different…if their lives weren’t so fucked to hell were there, burning in his throat, fighting to come out…but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t say them.  
He felt on his lips the words Sam wanted to say…his plea for him to help him, to make it real…to make the monsters go away.  
Sam’s lips had tasted of salt and beer the first time they had kissed, they had tasted of innocence and dreams, of home and  _them…_ they still tasted of salt and home, it was still them…it was real.  
“Sammy…” He whispered against his brother’s lips. “This is real…”  
Sam’s grip on his shoulders strengthened…he was hanging onto him, fighting what he was hearing…or seeing.  
“We are real…” he whispered, his hands still on Sam’s face, their foreheads touching.   
Sam exhaled, his hands releasing the grip on his shoulders; they were so close, pressed together, that Dean could feel Sam’s heartbeat against him, it was strong, it was real…why couldn’t Sam feel it?  
 ”Make it real…” Sam said and Dean couldn’t tell how long they had been like that, their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling together without their lips actually touching, their hearts beating in synch.  
 _Make it real…_  
He promised, without uttering a word, he showed Sam…and would, again, with brief touches, he let his eyes speak.  
And Sam listened.  
   



End file.
